


Stay With Me

by mygreatestjoyandprivilege



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, John's stag night, M/M, So much angst I'm so sorry, Why do I do this to myself, awkward one night stands, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 20:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2595434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mygreatestjoyandprivilege/pseuds/mygreatestjoyandprivilege
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of John’s stag night taught Sherlock a great deal of things, but three things in particular stood out to him. One, he was a giggly drunk who not only thought himself to be a comedian but also gained three times the confidence he usually had to say anything and everything to John. Two, he was much more of a hopeless romantic than he wanted to admit. And three, he was not good at one night stands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay With Me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure many many angsty fics about John's stag night have already been done, but this one is my take on what could have happened if John and Sherlock had a one night stand that night. It's been sitting in my computer for months now and I just decided to post it already, even if I still feel like it's missing something. This is as good as it's gonna get until I find more time to pay attention to my fics.
> 
> The title is inspired by the song “Stay With Me” by Sam Smith. Every time I heard it on the radio I would legitimately almost start crying because I thought it just fit perfectly for John and Sherlock in this kind of situation. (Go listen to it and you’ll see what I mean. And then you’ll cry too.). So then of course I thought I needed to write a horrible heartbreaking angsty fic about it. And now here we are.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy (or not, because I might make you cry but you know what I mean) and as always feedback and comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading my dears!

Sherlock could have easily blamed it all on the alcohol. It was true that he wasn’t in the most right state of mind the night of John’s stag do, but he always managed to convince himself that he didn’t become a completely different person when he was drunk. He just became a little more flamboyant, that was all. He had a knack for “letting loose” with one too many drinks of liquid courage in his system, as John had put it once. His words had a way of leaving his mouth before he had thought them all the way through in his head, and walking up stairs or using fine motor skills in any way was infinitely more challenging when he was drunk, but Sherlock was usually extremely aware of his actions while intoxicated. He just may not have been one for the making the most well thought out decisions in such a state.

He did everything deliberately, just as he did when sober. The room may have just spun a little more and his speech became a bit slurred. But he was still himself while drunk, even when John’s stag night resulted in him being the most drunk he could ever recall being in his entire life.

Maybe if John had followed his instructions and cooperated with Sherlock’s scientific methods for tracking their alcohol input and output, they wouldn’t have found themselves in this position. Sherlock had created the perfect plan to get them in the happy medium between buzzed and tipsy while not becoming “I just had five shots of tequila in under a minute and now I can’t feel my face” drunk. They were grown men and not university students; getting John blind drunk just an hour into his stag night would have been unacceptable, in Sherlock’s view. This seemingly ridiculous social custom was supposed to last all night for a reason, and he had it all planned out down to the hour.

But of course John didn’t cooperate. It was his stag night, after all, and it had also always been a favorite pastime of John’s to explicitly ignore more than half of what Sherlock ordered him to do when in the right mood. That and he had always been so bloody stubborn that it drove Sherlock mad.  

Whatever the reason, be it John or the alcohol or the emotions surrounding the stag night in general, the morning after found them both in a bad way. But once the reality of the situation hit them, there was absolutely no going back.

It all had started with their return to 221B, hours earlier than Sherlock had originally intended. Mrs. Hudson had tutted and fussed at them as they leaned against each other on the stairs at only nine o’clock until Sherlock and John had dragged themselves up to the flat reluctantly, both wishing for just a few minutes more of a snooze on the staircase.

Upon entering the flat, John had stumbled into the kitchen while Sherlock had collapsed into his chair quite ungracefully, sighing and attempting to will the world to stop spinning beneath his feet. A minute later John emerged from the kitchen with two glasses with ice and a bottle of his favorite scotch that he only broke into for special occasions or when he was feeling particularly low. Sherlock had forgotten about the scotch in its hiding place behind the bleach under the sink and had never bothered to get rid of it after John was officially moved out.

Sherlock groaned as he saw John approaching him with the bottle and glasses, protesting only slightly as John shoved one of the glasses into his left hand. “Must we? I think we’ve both had enough for the night, John,” he mumbled, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. It would have been fantastic if the room had stopped tilting slightly to the left, but at least he felt warm and relaxed.

John just shook his head, smiling wide. “It’s my stag night and we will do as I say. Just one more drink. You bloody lightweight.” He then poured quite a large splash of the liquor into Sherlock’s glass, almost sloshing it over the side with his clumsy hands. “This is good scotch, too. Can’t believe you kept it after all this time.”

Sherlock shrugged, raising the glass to his lips as John sank into his own chair and placed the bottle to his right on the floor after pouring his own portion into his glass.

Sherlock took a big gulp of the scotch and swallowed it easily, met only a faint tingling sensation in his throat. He then concluded that he was still entirely shit-faced, as any other time he had attempted to take a sip of straight scotch that large would have left him a sputtering mess with a burning throat and watering eyes.

John then suggested they play a game, so Sherlock indulged him (it was his stag night, and as John’s best man it was his duty to make sure John had the best stag night he could possibly provide), leaving them facing each other in their respective chairs with post-it notes stuck to their foreheads.

John’s question of “Am I pretty?” left Sherlock thoroughly confused. He furrowed his eyebrows even as John pointed to the note to clarify what he meant. Of course John was pretty. John was beautiful.

Others may have thought of him to be an ordinary man, as plain and unexciting and even boring, but not Sherlock. He knew John better than anyone did. Better than Mary, even. Not that he would ever say it to her face.

But John was in no way ordinary. He was _extraordinary_. He was fantastic and amazing and every adjective in-between. He was a conductor of light, the man who had saved his life again and again just by being John Watson. He was a man who had taught him how to love, how to care about people, how to save lives rather than solve murders, how to want to be a better person for the sake of those he loved. In any kind of darkness, John was always there to pull Sherlock out, to wrap him up in his very presence and convince him that everything would be alright in a world that was almost always not alright.

And he was absolutely stunning in every way. “Pretty” didn’t even cut it. John deserved words so much better than that. Thankfully, Sherlock’s intoxicated mind chose not to voice any of these things and registered that John was not actually talking about himself when he asked the question but about who he was supposed to be according to the post-it on his forehead.

So Sherlock instead responded with a long explanation of how beauty was a subjective idea and social construct based on a matter of opinion in a drunken ramble that managed to avoid answering the question at all.

A few minutes later, John was giggling—actually giggling, not just laughing—hysterically at some stupid joke Sherlock had made. Sherlock smirked and giggled a bit himself, replying with a mumbled “thank you.”

Suddenly John was touching Sherlock’s knee, using it to balance himself as he slid off the edge of his chair. He then kept it there for a moment longer than necessary before removing it and declaring “I don’t mind” with a shrug.

A few minutes after that, they removed their post-it notes, abandoning the game entirely. John scoffed at Sherlock for not knowing who Madonna was and Sherlock found himself in a fit of giggles over the fact that he had been trying to guess himself all along.

As Sherlock came down from his giggle fit and finished the remainder of his scotch, he found himself staring intently at John as he carefully poured himself another shot or so from the bottle. Sherlock was suddenly feeling a bit more sober as he watched John move across from him. John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him and shot him a goofy, drunken grin, to which Sherlock couldn’t help grinning back at.

Sherlock had been dreading John’s stag night for weeks, knowing it would be their last real chance to spend time alone together without the looming threat of John’s marriage above their heads. No matter how many times John insisted that nothing was going to change, that they would still be John and Sherlock even after the wedding, Sherlock knew that wasn’t possible. Of course things were going to change.

John had found a woman he wanted to marry and have a family with; Mary was John’s key to the disgustingly perfect, happy life Sherlock had known John had always subconsciously wanted, despite his love of the danger and risk that always managed to surround Sherlock. He had made his choice for who he was going to spend the rest of his life with. And it turned out to be someone who wasn’t Sherlock, a fate Sherlock had always predicted from the very beginning of their friendship, no matter how much he wanted the opposite to be true.

He had known for months that John couldn’t possibly be content on solving cases with Sherlock forever, especially after everything that had changed between them after Sherlock’s fake death. No, things would never be like they were in the beginning. All that adrenaline pulsing through their veins, all those ridiculous chases across London, all those times it was just the two of them against the rest of the world: that all felt like another life, like a chapter that had been closed in a book. John was getting married now, and that was that.   

Maybe if Sherlock had actually confronted his feelings for John instead of pushing them down over and over again before The Fall (because _caring is not an advantage, alone is what I have, alone protects me, sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side_ ) he would have had his chance with John. His chance for them to become something more than flatmates solving crimes together.

Because Sherlock had realized when he fell to his fake death for John, when he ripped himself out of John’s life for two years and watched from afar as John tore himself apart with grief, that he was madly in love with him. Yes, as much as he tried to deny it, Sherlock Holmes was in love with this ridiculously stubborn ex-army doctor who wore too many ugly jumpers and was always nagging him about buying the milk and keeping his experiments out of the fridge.

It had taken faking his own death for Sherlock to realize how much John meant to him. And then when he returned to John only to be met with John’s fiery rage and a strange woman who was suddenly John’s fiancée…well, it hurt. It hurt Sherlock more than he expected it to. He hadn’t known he was capable of such emotions, of such feelings of longing and regret for what could have been if he hadn’t been such a _massive clot_ about admitting he was a human being capable of such idiotic, irrational feelings of love. And even though he had no idea if John felt the same way—John’s feelings had always been hard for Sherlock to read; most people were an open book to him, but not John Watson—it didn’t matter. Because John was getting married. He was leaving Sherlock, just as he was always meant to do in the end. Just like everyone else in Sherlock’s life.

But Sherlock could not live in a world without John Watson. It was that simple. Sherlock needed John, and he could only hope that John needed him just as much. He had stopped thinking he could actually be with John the moment he heard of his engagement, but it didn’t stop him from pining. And he still loved him. He would never stop loving him. Because he was John.

He was everything Sherlock wanted and nothing he could ever have. Which was why he was letting him go, watching John marry someone who was not him, allowing him to move on and start that perfect, ideal life he so deserved. Because if there was anyone who deserved happiness more in this world, it was John Watson. And Sherlock was determined to do whatever it took to give him that happiness, starting with the wedding.

As all of these thoughts tumbled around in Sherlock’s brain at a much slower speed than usual, he suddenly had an incredibly selfish thought. It was John’s supposed “last night as a bachelor,” and Sherlock’s highly intoxicated mind had just come up with a brilliant plan to use that notion to his advantage. Logically, he deserved to know if John had at least considered the possibility of them being romantically involved, and now was the most opportune moment to test that theory.

If John was going to leave him forever for this Mary woman, this would certainly be his only chance to do something so daring. And if anything went wrong, if he was rejected, well…John probably wouldn’t remember it in the morning and Sherlock could brush the incident off as a drunken blunder. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t considered it when he was sober.

“So do you actually know over two hundred kinds of tobacco ash or do you just say that sort of thing to impress people?” John asked Sherlock seriously, twirling the scotch in his glass absentmindedly.

But Sherlock wasn’t listening. He had placed his glass on the floor as John was speaking and had begun to stand up, his decision already made. He needed John. He needed him right this second. “John,” he said, looking down at him with sharp focus.

“Yeah?” John said, staring up at him, confused by the fact that Sherlock was standing while he was still seated but not possessing enough motivation to stand up himself.

“I…I need you,” Sherlock said slowly, taking a slightly stumbling step closer to John. He was standing directly in front of him now, their toes practically touching. Somewhere in the back of his not-at-all sober mind, he knew this was possibly the worst idea he had ever had.

“Need me to do what?” John replied, grinning stupidly up at Sherlock. He had to angle his neck upward so much it was almost completely vertical in order to look at him. He clearly thought Sherlock was making some sort of joke to make him laugh again.

“Just…don’t move.” And although his reflexes and movements were slower and much less properly executed than he would have hoped when doing something like this, Sherlock was suddenly leaning forward and swooping down towards John.

He placed a knee in the space between John’s thighs and curled his long body downward. His heart was beating a mile a minute and he was feeling much more clear-headed now than he had been just ten minutes ago. He knew exactly what he was doing, and it was highly likely that the alcohol he had consumed was edging him on to keep going. The alcohol was giving him that one last push to do what he had wanted to do—no, needed to do—for years.

Before his mind could catch up to his actions, Sherlock pried the glass of scotch from John’s hands and set it on the table beside him before leaning down even more, angling his face downward towards John’s.

“Sherlock?” John whispered, the playful, giggly tone gone from his voice. He suddenly sounded just as sober as Sherlock felt in that moment. John stayed absolutely still as Sherlock paused just inches from his face, breathing heavily.

“Please. I don’t want you to go. I need you,” Sherlock repeated, barely breathing the words. He turned his head slightly to the side, brushing John’s nose lightly with his own, and then finally pressed his mouth to John’s in a firm kiss.

When John didn’t make any movement that looked like a response, Sherlock pulled away just a centimeter before adjusting slightly and kissing him again, a little gentler this time, hoping he hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of his life by initiating such an action. He was greeted with a very quiet sound of surprise from John against his mouth and took it as a sign to continue, knowing that if it fell apart now, he would never be able to feel those perfect lips on his ever again.

Sherlock pressed himself forward into John’s lips, moving his own lips hungrily and trying to memorize the sensation. He moved one hand to the side of John’s neck, pulling him forward gently to force their lips together even more, then braced his other hand against the top of the armchair for support as he leaned down and forward on his knee.

He then felt John move his lips against his in response before placing his hands on the side of Sherlock’s hips, pressing down ever so slightly. John then opened his mouth and allowed Sherlock’s wet, eager tongue to enter. Sherlock almost pulled back and yelped aloud in surprise at John’s gentle nibble on his lower lip.

He took that as a clear sign of John’s enthusiasm and pulled away for air only for a second before diving down again, opening his mouth wide and kissing John as hard and passionately as he could while his heart sung in triumph. He was vaguely aware that he was making quiet little whimpering noises at their kissing, which only intensified as John slowly slid his hands down Sherlock’s torso.

Sloppy, wet, desperate kissing noises filled the air and John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth as he bit down hard on John’s lower lip. John then slid his hands down towards Sherlock’s arse and both squeezed and pulled his buttocks forward. Sherlock let out a low moan of his own before pressing John into the chair even harder, placing both his hands on the back of John’s neck and kissing him deeply, reluctantly pulling away for air only when he absolutely had to.

After another minute or so of this desperate kissing, Sherlock’s knee was beginning to feel numb and his back felt uncomfortable being twisted in such an awkward position. It didn’t help that his knee almost bucked underneath him when John sloppily swiped a hand down his chest then cupped the front of his trousers, causing him to gasp aloud and pull away for a moment, tilting his head back as he moaned and thrust into the palm of John’s hand. He then pressed his knee forward into John’s crotch, making sure to return the favor by rubbing against John’s own growing erection with just enough friction to make John gasp as well.

Finally this kissing and awkward body positioning wasn’t enough, and Sherlock wasted no time in standing up, pulling John up with him. After he regained his balance, he grasped John’s hand firmly and on slightly wobbly legs led him quickly down the hallway and into his bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind them.

Before John could say anything, Sherlock resumed his lips on John’s, wrapping his arms around his neck, kissing him sloppily but passionately. John responded just as enthusiastically as before, kissing Sherlock back eagerly and wrapping strong arms around his waist, pulling their bodies even closer together. Sherlock walked forward slowly, pushing on John’s chest gently to get him to walk backwards, pushing him back as soon as the back of John’s knees hit the edge of the bed.

Sherlock quickly scrambled on top of John as soon as his back hit the mattress, leaning down to kiss him desperately, unwilling to have their lips part for even a moment. Soon he was clawing at John’s jumper as he sat back a little on John’s thighs, beginning to work the material up his chest quite ineffectively.  Letting out a frustrated huff, Sherlock pulled on John’s hands, getting him to sit up so he could tug at the jumper more easily.

“Okay?” Sherlock mumbled once his brain caught up with what his hands were doing, raising his eyebrows at John after he had his jumper halfway up his chest. His enthusiastic response in the armchair was promising, but Sherlock wanted to be absolutely certain he wasn’t hallucinating John’s consent.

“Oh god yes,” John replied breathlessly, immediately raising his arms up so Sherlock could pull the jumper over his head. His reply made Sherlock swallow hard, feeling a warm sensation plummet immediately below his waist, and he kissed John again eagerly before moving to his shirt.

Sherlock then undid the buttons of John’s shirt with unsteady, clumsy hands and shrugged the material off his body, followed quickly by the thin sleeveless shirt beneath it. John then quickly shed Sherlock of his jacket and shirt just as clumsily in return, tossing them both to the side after a bit of a struggle with both through his drunken haze.

John looked up at Sherlock for a moment before placing a hand on the back of his head and tugging downwards on his unruly mane of curls, kissing Sherlock passionately yet gently. Sherlock sighed into John’s mouth and closed his eyes, grabbing fistfuls of John’s hair in his hands and leaning forward slightly. He pressed his body into John’s as they kissed, beginning to tilt John backwards once more.

Sherlock suddenly felt John’s hands fumbling on his belt and then with the zipper of his trousers, moving blindly but still somewhat effectively while John was still leaning up to kiss him. With one last firm kiss, Sherlock shuffled off of John and quickly pulled his trousers and pants off completely after toeing off his shoes and stripping off his socks, stepping out of them and throwing them to the side after almost toppling over himself. Suddenly impatient and surprisingly not self-conscious at the fact that he was now completely nude in front of John, Sherlock practically ripped John’s trousers and pants off of him, followed quickly by his socks.

Sherlock then climbed on top of John again, lying horizontally and kissing his lips hungrily once more. He wriggled slightly to align their bodies to the right position and then— _there_. Their equally hard cocks finally made contact, and both men made desperate low noises against each other’s lips. Sherlock grinded their hips together slowly, moving his lips to John’s neck and covering it with kisses before nibbling the side of it gently, earning him some quiet gasps from John in return.

Sherlock shifted himself up a little and continued to kiss John in every place he could reach—his collarbone, his shoulder, his nipples, his sternum, his belly button, all the way down to the points of his hips. He brushed his lips and tongue across John’s leaking cock lightly before moving up again and capturing John’s lips once more.

“’S good that you came back,” John mumbled, struggling to tilt his head up to meet Sherlock’s lips more effectively after Sherlock pulled away momentarily for a gulp of air. “I missed you.”

“I’m sorry I ever left you,” Sherlock whispered desperately between some slightly more tender kisses. “I didn’t want to. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” John replied. “But you’re here now,” he murmured before sitting up and flipping them over, pinning Sherlock’s wrists down into the bed as he covered his neck in wet, sloppy kisses. He smiled down at Sherlock. “’S okay, really.”

Sherlock smiled through the next kiss John pressed to his lips, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and hugging him as tight as he could, his head spinning from more than just the scotch now.

His smile was gone a moment later when John thrust their throbbing erections together, making Sherlock cry out involuntarily at the sensation. John covered Sherlock’s jawline and neck in kisses then moved down to his chest, swiping his tongue across his nipples and kissing the place just above his heart before returning to his lips. He then grinded their hips together once more, letting out some low moans of his own as he breathed heavily against Sherlock’s neck.

John then took them both in hand and with one hand bracing himself against the bed sheets, he grinded their erections together, making them both let out low moans of pleasure. He quickly increased his tempo, thrusting his hips quickly against Sherlock’s while kissing him desperately. Despite being drunk, they were both embarrassingly close already and they had just started.

 “I love you. I love you John,” Sherlock gasped, straining his head up to kiss John hard on the mouth. “I love you I love you I love you,” he repeated breathlessly, kissing John passionately as he thrust their achingly hard cocks together a now much faster speed.

John responded by leaning forward even more and sliding his hands underneath Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him tightly as he continued to roll his hips against Sherlock’s, attempting to get as much friction between them as possible. He turned his head and kissed and nuzzled and nibbled the side of Sherlock’s neck as he thrust harder and harder, grunting at the effort and breathing heavily. It was if they couldn’t get close enough to each other and were suddenly caught in a scramble of desperate limbs and hot, desperate kisses as they tried to close that inexplicable space between them. Sherlock wanted nothing more than John’s lips, his hands, his hips, his chest, his cock, his _everything_ , touching him and pressing up against him in that very moment. His hands and lips were everywhere, attempting to get to every part of John all at once.

Finally with a few hard strokes at just the right angle and with the help of John’s hand between them, Sherlock was screaming “John! Please John!” followed by a string of French words John couldn’t understand. Sherlock dug his nails even harder into John’s back as he came hard and fast, spilling himself between their chests.

A few more solid thrusts later, John came as well, crying out Sherlock’s name before smashing his mouth into Sherlock’s and moaning into his mouth, thrusting weakly with his hips as he rode out the aftershocks and their cocks were sticking to their stomachs.

John then rolled off of Sherlock, staring up at the ceiling and trying to catch his breath. Without any motivation or energy to heave himself up from the bed to grab a cloth from the bathroom, Sherlock used an edge of the bed sheets to wipe his stomach clean then rolled over onto his side to clean up John’s mess as well. He then crawled under the covers with John, not caring that he had just ruined half of his sheets with their mess. He then snuggled closer to John, who was already half-asleep.

 “I love you,” Sherlock whispered, kissing John’s lips softly and then his cheek, nuzzling himself into John’s side. He turned to flick off the light then shut his eyes in exhaustion, drunkenness and content as he pressed himself into John’s body as much as possible.

He wasn’t sure if he had heard John correctly as he quickly drifted off into a deep, alcohol and exhaustion-fueled sleep, but Sherlock could have sworn he heard John mumble “Me too.”

* * *

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, he was not only extremely disoriented, but he had a headache so excruciating that he was certain it was going to split his skull in two. The sunlight streaming in through his bedroom windows was too bright, his stomach was churning, his head was throbbing and there was…there was something heavy on his chest.

As he slowly gained more and more consciousness, squinting into the too bright room, Sherlock realized that there was someone in the bed with him. Someone who had their entire arm thrown across his middle, weighing him down as he lay on his back. And that someone was John.

John was lying on his stomach, his face turned halfway into the pillow facing Sherlock, his arm both thrown across Sherlock’s chest and curled slightly into his side, his hand resting firmly on his ribs as if he was trying to keep Sherlock right there next to him.

Sherlock froze at this realization. Not that he was upset to find himself waking up practically in John’s arms—and completely naked, he also realized as he looked down at his bare chest and saw the corner of his hipbone poking out from beneath the sheets—but this could not have been real. He was most certainly in the middle of a dream, imagining this entire scenario.

A second later, the entire night came flooding back to him all at once. _Oh no_. The stag night. John’s stag night. It was not supposed to have ended like this. This was not the plan. This was not the plan _at all_.

Before he had much of a chance to process this further, he felt John stir slightly, shifting a little and automatically curling his arm tighter around Sherlock and pulling him closer. Sherlock stayed absolutely still and silent, shutting his eyes tightly and waiting for John to make the same realization. He heard John make a small intake of breath as he lifted his head off of the pillow, knowing he was most certainly taking in the sight of Sherlock under his arm beside him. Finally Sherlock got up enough courage to open his eyes and speak. He slowly turned his head to John, regarding him silently for a moment.  

“Good morning…” he said hesitantly, in a quiet voice. He was waiting for John to react.

“Um…good morning?” John replied just as hesitantly, in a raspy voice. He then slowly removed his arm from Sherlock’s chest and pushed himself upwards, moving about a foot away from him on the bed. He then sat down with a thud, crossing his legs beneath the sheets and looking down at Sherlock with an unreadable expression on his face, his mouth slightly open.

Sherlock didn’t reply but instead sat up as well, giving John some more space between them and looking down at his lap self-consciously as he mirrored John’s position, fumbling with his hands.

John then sighed heavily, and Sherlock glanced up at him to see him running a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumped. “Please tell me we didn’t do what I think we did last night,” he said flatly, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock kept his head down as his heart sank more and more by the second _. Of course he regrets it_ , the voice in his head sneered. _Did you honestly think you would wake up to a good morning kiss from John? Don’t be so daft._ Sherlock shook his head slightly. “I doubt that you want to hear my deduction this time,” he said quietly.

John sighed again, shaking his head and muttering an exasperated “Fuck…” under his breath.

Sherlock stayed silent, staring down at his hands and fumbling with them. He swallowed hard, waiting for John to say something else. Anything else.

“We shouldn’t have…we shouldn’t have done that,” John said flatly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry it was so disappointing for you,” Sherlock snapped suddenly, finally lifting his head to look John in the eye. He was hurt, and he was letting John know it. John needed to know how he felt about this. He blinked back the unexpected tears threatening to fall.

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

“Oh? Then what exactly _did you mean_ , John? Because you didn’t seem to be regretting any of it last night, as I recall.”

John pursed his lips the way he did when he was extremely cross with Sherlock and was exerting a lot of self-control not to throttle the man sitting across from him. “I’m getting married in less than a week.”

“You say that as if you think I don’t know,” Sherlock said bitterly. His head was absolutely throbbing with a hangover and he did not want to be having this conversation with John right now, but yet here they were. He swallowed hard before adding, “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think…I don’t believe we, um…I don’t believe there was any penetration involved.” He blushed and looked away, saying it quickly.

John swallowed, nodding slowly. “Yeah, that’s…um, that’s good. I don’t know how we would have managed that, to be honest. Not in the state we were in.”

An awkward moment of silence followed and neither of them could look at the other. Finally John threw the sheets off of himself and located his pants on the floor, pulling them on quickly still without looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock bit his lip, watching John across the bed as he found his undershirt and tugged it back over his head. It wasn’t supposed to have ended like this.  

“John,” Sherlock said softly, and John turned to look at him reluctantly.

Sherlock swallowed and cleared his throat. “You can’t…you can’t pretend it didn’t mean anything. I know you want to, but you can’t. What happened last night was something long overdue, if I’m not mistaken.”

John set his jaw, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter if it meant anything. It wasn’t right. I…we…” he sighed, shaking his head. “You know things have changed.”

“Have they, John? If things are as different as you say they are, why do you care so much about what happens to us after you get married? Why do you keep trying to reassure me that everything’s going to be fine?” He threw off the sheets and stomped over to his dresser, locating a pair of pajama pants and pulling them on swiftly. He walked over to John with a t-shirt in his hand, crossing his arms over his bare chest while standing in front of him.

“Because I’m not… _I’m not gay_ , Sherlock! And not only that but there is a woman in my life now! A woman I am bloody engaged to!” John shouted, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

Sherlock glared at him. “Don’t be an idiot, John. It’s entirely unbecoming. I never said you were gay. You’ve considered bisexuality more than once, haven’t you?” He raised an eyebrow at John, sighing at the frustrated look he got in return. He rolled his eyes. “I thought myself to be asexual before I met you; you thought yourself to be mostly heterosexual before you met me. It seems we have both altered our sexualities for each other. Perhaps we are both the exceptions to our own rules? It’s perfectly fine to be bisexual, by the way. I don’t think any less of you for being so. Like you told me once: it’s all fine.” Sherlock shrugged as nonchalantly as he could in this situation.

“It doesn’t matter what I am, okay? What matters is that I just slept with my best friend—christ, my _best man_ —on my stag night! And I think we can both agree that this situation is everything but _fine_ ,” John hissed through clenched teeth.

“John, I know you’re upset right now but please, we need to talk about this. If you’d just—” Sherlock began, speaking it what he hoped was a soothing voice.

“What is there to bloody talk about, Sherlock? We had sex! We got drunk and we slept together. That’s it. Just a one night stand. You do know what that is, right?”

Sherlock swallowed, his face reddening without his consent. “I’m not an idiot, John.”

“Well what the bloody hell do you want me to say, Sherlock? We were both drunk and we let it—no, _I_ let it go too far. That’s all it was. A mistake.”

“ _Oh_. Of course. How silly of me,” Sherlock said quietly as he slowly lowered the gray t-shirt over his torso. Hearing the words had been like a punch to the stomach; he was suddenly wishing they could take it all back just as much as John was. He sat down on the edge of the bed with a quiet thud, as if he couldn’t bear to stand any longer.

John looked down at Sherlock, choking a bit on his words. “That’s not…of course you’re not…I didn’t mean… _shit_.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but you know how much of a bad idea that was. That was not the time or place for…for this sort of thing to happen.”

There was a long silence and then Sherlock finally looked up at John, staring at him intently. “I’m sorry, John. For everything,” he whispered. He could tell by the look on John’s face that he understood the meaning of those words. Sherlock bit his lip and looked away, swallowing back more insistent tears.

John nodded once before slowly sitting down on the bed next to Sherlock, as if weighed down by his words. He was still careful to leave a good foot of space between them.

Another silence fell between them, and Sherlock mustered the courage to speak again after a few moments. “If…if Mary hadn’t been here when I came back, would I have had a chance?” he asked quietly, still unable to meet John’s eyes.

“I’m not going to answer that. I think you already know what I would say,” John replied softly. He swallowed and looked down at his hands in his lap.

Sherlock looked over at John. “Please, John. I need to hear you say it.”

John sighed, looking back up at Sherlock with sad eyes. “Yes,” he whispered. “Of course you would have.”

Sherlock suddenly leaned forward, taking John’s face in both his hands and kissing him deeply. He tried to give John everything he wanted to say but couldn’t in that kiss, hoping it would somehow change his mind. It was sloppy and desperate and almost drunken but it was everything he had in that moment to give.

He felt John sigh quietly into his lips in return, kissing him back just as passionately. But a moment later it was over when John raised his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed back gently but with just enough force to separate them. Sherlock opened his eyes when John pulled away, immediately lowering his hands.

John then took Sherlock’s hands in both of his and gently pushed them into Sherlock’s lap, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary before pulling his hands away. He gave Sherlock that stony, hardened soldier look and shook his head minutely, clenching his jaw tightly.

They sat there on the bed for another minute or so, neither of them knowing what to say or do. John finally stood from the bed but Sherlock stopped him, lunging forward to grab his hand and squeeze it tightly, pulling him back towards the bed.

“Stay with me,” Sherlock begged, his eyes watering as he looked up at John pleadingly. He wrapped his arms around John’s middle and hugged him tight when John turned to face him, letting out a quiet sob and burying his face in John’s stomach as he continued to sit on the bed. “ _Please_. Just stay.”

He felt John shudder slightly at his touch and knew he was shaking his head quickly, as if shaking his head would undo what had already been done. “You know I…I…No, Sherlock. I can’t. You know I can’t,” his voice betraying him by cracking slightly, revealing his pain, his regret, his desire to just rewind the last twelve hours of his life and forget it all. He did not hug Sherlock back in return. He stood incredibly still, possibly even holding his breath, as if not to show any signs of giving in to Sherlock’s pleas.

Sherlock lifted his head from John’s chest and looked up into his eyes desperately. He gently reached a hand up to John’s face and cupped his cheek, forcing him to make eye contact. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, I…I don’t…” Sherlock paused, taking a shaky breath and swallowing the growing lump in his throat. He dropped his hand from John’s face. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t care if you can just move on and forget this ever happened. I know we shouldn’t have done it and this is impeccably bad timing on my part but…you know this can’t just be a one night stand. You know how I am.”

“And I also know how you would do anything for me if I asked.  So I’m asking you to let me go, Sherlock,” John choked out, biting down hard on his lower lip. He took a deep breath and paused a moment before speaking again, as if steeling himself to say the words. “Because we can’t. You know we can’t. Please, Sherlock. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

“Just the two of us against the rest of the world, remember?” Sherlock said hurriedly, standing up from the bed and taking both of John’s hands in his own. He looked at John pleadingly as he rambled desperately, trying to say anything that would make John stay. “I know I hurt you…I know that I have no right to want you, that I don’t deserve a man like you. I abandoned you, I put you through the worst grief imaginable and when I was alive I was a stubborn git and an ass most of the time, but…that doesn’t change the fact that I…that I do in fact…love you.” He took a shaky breath, staring into John’s dark blue eyes, searching for some kind of answer in them.

“It’s not just the two of us anymore, Sherlock. Those days are over. They have been for a long time,” John said flatly. He pulled his hands away from Sherlock’s grasp and took a step back.  

“Please, John. I don’t want to lose you. The whole time I was faking my death, I was only thinking about the soonest possible moment I could get back to you. Everything I’ve ever done has always been for you. You must understand that. I’ve come so close to losing you so many times only to prevent it at the very last second but this…this isn’t something I can save you from. It’s something you don’t want to be saved from. But I’m so selfish that I can’t bring myself to let you go.” He let out a quiet sob as a single tear rolled down his cheek. Sherlock bit his lip, shaking his head slightly.

John simply stared back at him with a cold, hard glare. He shook his head. “I said no, Sherlock. You don’t get to use what could have been as an excuse for what’s happening right now. That’s not how this works.” His voice was shaking slightly with emotion and his hands were clenched into tight fists as his sides.

“Did you ever love me, John?” Sherlock said softly. “Because I have loved you since the first moment we met. It just took me three years to deduce it.”

John swallowed hard, exhaling deeply before speaking. “We are not doing this. When I asked you for one more miracle, when I asked you not to be dead, I wasn’t asking for this. If we ever had a chance, it’s gone now, alright? We can’t pretend things are like the old days because they’re not.” He bit his lip hard.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sherlock replied.

John shook his head again. “The day you left me was the day I stopped loving you,” he choked, attempting to stare Sherlock down again but failing.

Sherlock shook his head and looked at John with sad, knowing eyes. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, John. We both know that’s not true.”

John bit his lip as he shook his head. “Stop, Sherlock. Just stop. I’m not playing games with you anymore. It’s over.”

“The game is never over, John. Never,” Sherlock whispered.

“Yeah well I’m engaged. So we are definitely over, Sherlock. Goodbye,” John choked before turning on his heel and walking out, slamming the door behind him.


End file.
